


Unpathed waters, undreamed shores

by DeVereWinterton



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Dead Man's Chest, F/M, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Queenscliff, S02e03 Dead Man's Chest, Smut, Swimming, There's a lot of fire and water here, pondering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-12 12:22:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13547241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeVereWinterton/pseuds/DeVereWinterton
Summary: Jack escorts Phyrne home, because it is only right. Isn’t it? Set during 02x03 Dead Man’s Chest.





	1. A fish out of water

**Author's Note:**

> The first Phrack fic I wanted to write, was a Queenscliff one. I have been terrified about writing it, because I wanted to get it right. I still am. But here it is; the walk home, and we’ll just take it from there, shall we?

_‘When anxious, uneasy and bad thoughts come, I go to the sea, and the sea drowns them out with its great wide sounds, cleanses me with its noise, and imposes a rhythm upon everything in me that is bewildered and confused._

— Rainer Maria Rilke

 

“Thank you, Jack. Always the gentleman,” she said, earning her a narrow-eyed stare for her cheek as he handed her her soaked black beret.

_Not always, Miss Fisher._

She’d reached the beach before he had and stood there – waiting for him – his grey three-piece suit weighing him down tremendously when attempting to reach the sandy shores. Always two steps ahead. He was grateful for the late – or was it early? – hour, as to any passerby it would surely have looked properly indecent; a woman, a man, the two figures getting out of the dark water, soaked to their bones, indulging in a late night dip.

He rarely allowed himself to think about the two of them as a man and a woman, when in biological terms, that’s all they were. The distance, boundaries and borders found in their titles offered him a sense of safety. A line he would not cross, even though she tempted him to, often enough.

_A man? I thought you were a police officer?_

She had been right, on both accounts. He was a police officer second, but he was a man first. Once upon a time, he had been a husband second, but he found it best not to dwell on the past, even though the failure of his marriage still gnawed at him, made his confidence falter.

Seeing Rosie at her father’s home recently had brought back so many memories. The presence of Miss Fisher had been disconcerting, as well as oddly comforting.

They were quite similar, Rosie Sanderson and Phryne Fisher. Both dark-haired, headstrong women, with a mind of their own and an independent streak.

But whereas Rosie’s body had, in the end, failed to please him any longer (and he suspected that the feeling had been mutual, as she’d often lain there in the final years of their marriage, _closing her eyes and thinking of England_ ) and both of their minds had drifted too far apart, he was impossibly enticed by Miss Fisher’s lithe form and quick wit. It wasn’t that he no longer loved Rosie; he did. It just was different now.

Phryne was utterly beguiling, like a siren luring unsuspecting sailors to the shore, and he was already in a dinghy, rowing his way towards her.

He’d barely gotten over the shock of seeing her on stage at the Imperial Club when she’d called him from Queenscliff, informing him about the stolen doubloon.

 _What the hell was he talking about?_ He hadn’t gotten over anything. If anything, after seeing her perform her fan dance about a month ago, everything she did now had been amplified in his mind; the brush of a hand, the sway of her hips, the stretch of a leg.

Not to mention the way she’d suddenly straddled _his_ legs in their little hidden booth, hiking up her dress to her thighs in one fluid motion, ensuring her cover was not blown. He would go to his grave remembering the exact pressure and the feel of her legs clasping his, the smell of her skin as his face was smothered by her modest bosom.

She’d been nothing short of provocative, just last night. It had actually been the first time he’d ever made it to her bedroom (not that this was his ultimate goal in life, but still), and they’d simply discussed the case. He’d been drinking tea, for crying out loud. He would have laughed at their decent, proper behaviour, if not for the electric thrill, the zinging undercurrent that betrayed a sexual tension between them.

Her dress, made out of white crushed velvet, hugged her body like a glove and highlighted her contours. He’d tried his best not to let his eyes roam, not to let his gaze wander, but he’d been utterly helpless when she’d retrieved a map from her décolletage, his eyes dropping to her breasts. Her knowing smile had nearly been his undoing, as she’d saucily sipped her Veuve Clicquot.

But it wasn’t just that, though. Yes, he was utterly entranced by her body, but he didn’t merely want to slake his physical thirst.

He loved her for her mind, for the person she was.

It was in all the small gestures where he found tokens of her affection for him, and he suspected she knew he wasn’t one for grandeur. Placing herself next to him during Mrs. Bolkonsky’s séance – finding an ally in him – and holding his hand. The fact that she knew of his love for sandwiches with ham, cheese and mustard pickle and had seen to it that they’d been at hand during his interviews. The gentle smiles she bestowed upon him as he solved a piece of the puzzle. Inviting him to Queenscliff and into the McNaster-household as though he’d always belonged there, at her side.

That one kiss they’d shared. Although it didn’t really count as a proper kiss, it _had_ been a kiss. It was the kiss that haunted his mind, his dreams, ever since. He’d brought the touch of her lips to his martial bed and he’d been repulsed by his own behaviour, even though he was only still married in name at that time.

But that kiss.

It had been heady, intoxicating, maddening...

* * *

 

She was adorable in her own infuriating way, her black outfit – reserved for breaking and entering – completely drenched, looking mildly upset at her now crumpled beret, pursing her lips. Her fringe clung to her forehead and he resisted the urge to brush the dark hair away from her porcelain skin.

Somehow, her red lipstick was still impeccable. He almost resented her for it. How could he have been so foolish, thinking something as insignificant as an ocean would ruin her make-up?

“You didn’t have to follow me here tonight, you know,” he told her, nodding at her beret as they began walking up the beach, towards the boulevard, the weight of his suit holding him back. Eventually, he simply shrugged out of his overcoat and draped it over the arm that held his hat.

“Of course I did, Jack. As you may recall, I’m not on holiday anymore. Besides, I have a few more of these at home.”

She tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow, as was her custom. Her hand was warm on his arm and he could feel her heat through the wet layers of his suit.

“Of course you do.” He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

She shot him a look that was obviously meant as a non-verbal reprimand. He raised his eyebrow in mock-challenge.

“ _And_ you went through the trouble of coming here. The _least_ I could do was follow your lead tonight,” she declared, knowing full well she’d probably done herself a bigger favour by following him, than it did him.

 _“To unpathed waters, undreamed shores,”_ he quoted.

“Waters that run as deep as the Pacific Ocean,” she added, not missing a beat, reminiscing.

“Where the pirate-girls of Collingwood rule the waves,” he joked, even though her comment had struck a raw nerve. He could vividly recall that night in her parlour, as she’d read his hand. It had been a brief but significant glimpse into the workings of her mind, the feelings she held for him, the way she regarded him as a man.

She squeezed his arm in a silent reply, hugged her body a little tighter, pressed herself more intimately against his side as they fell in step.

Together, they clambered up the stone path and walked along the boulevard in the direction of the McNaster residence, which was situated about a fifteen minute walk away from the beach. As they walked, they talked and discussed the possible ways in which they could set up Mr. Ellis and Mr. Sterling the next day.

There was no further talk about still waters running deep, and Jack was immensely grateful for her tact.

* * *

 

Upon arriving at the front door (which she’d left unlocked) she told him he’d better come up to her room – as it was closer – to get out of his wet things, before going back to his own room. As expected, he’d protested profusely, but she’d come prepared. And, well, it was the truth, really.

“ _Jack_. My room has a fireplace, no doubt with a nice warm fire burning right at this very moment. Your clothes will never dry before morning without one,” she told him in a hushed whisper, in a tone that left no room for argument.

Damn it, she was right. He hated it when she was right (which was more often than he cared to admit). His room was at the far end of the next hallway, without a fireplace, and he suspected Mrs. Stanley might have had something to do with that. He was not a fool; he knew she disapproved of her niece’s associations with him, and he had little doubt she had seen to it that his room was about as far away from her niece’s as physically possible.

“You can hang up your clothes in my room and sneak back to yours, although everyone will be asleep by now so sneaking might be a bit of a moot point. Mr. Butler can take care of pressing your suit in the morning, and you’ll be as right as rain,” she told him, almost giddy at the thought of him sneaking around at night as she was accustomed to doing.

He didn’t even ask how she’d known he’d only packed a clean shirt and a pair of underwear before rushing off to come to her assistance.

“I should hope not,” he muttered under his breath, obviously annoyed at the situation and probably blaming her for his wet suit, yet she grinned at his astute comment; they really didn’t need any more water at this time.

* * *

 

When they made it to her room, holding their shoes in hand – having left a wet trail behind that would no doubt infuriate Aunt Prudence in the morning – she quietly closed the door of the bedroom behind her. Jack stood in the centre of the room, looking as uncomfortable as she’d ever seen him, shoes in the one hand, his fedora in the other, clutching the items in his large hands as though they were his final strongholds.

Jack hadn’t disrobed in front of a woman in what felt like ages. Even when he had been married to Rosie, they’d generally undressed in the dark, especially during the later years of their marriage. He moved towards the fireplace, his back to the bed, allowing the two of them a modicum of privacy while undressing in the same room.

He’d never stripped down to more than his dress shirt and waistcoat in front of Phryne on a particularly hot day, and he’d already felt uncomfortable and terribly underdressed. As though she’d found the Achilles heel in his impenetrable, buttoned-up armour.

He felt terribly out of place.

He heard her rustling behind him and figured it was probably best to just get this over with, like ripping off a band aid. It was awkward now, but it would surely be far more awkward if he remained fully dressed while she would–

No. No, he wouldn’t allow his mind to wander.

He placed his coat over the back of a chair near the fire, hoping it would dry sufficiently. He shrugged out of his jacket, a feat that was hindered by wet fabric sliding over wet fabric. He hung it over the grate, closer to the fireplace. Next, he loosened his blue tie and unbuttoned his waistcoat at a pace much too slow for his liking. He just wanted to get this done and over with, but his fingers were cold and the soaked fabric wasn’t cooperating in the least. Still, he managed. He slid his braces down his arms, before taking off his socks and unbuttoning his dress shirt. Sliding his cufflinks in his trouser pocket, he gingerly removed his shirt, feeling suddenly terribly exposed, standing in just his undershirt and trousers.

He heard her sigh behind him and for a second there, he forgot who he was and what he was doing here.

He shivered, and he wasn’t sure if it was from desire or the cold, but he opted for the latter and took off his trousers in one swift motion – or at least, he attempted to – as one of his feet got stuck down his trouser leg due to the clammy material that was clinging to his skin. He then hung up the remainder of his clothes on both the grate and the chair.

Even though he’d condemned his heavy suit only minutes ago, he was rather pleased to find it had kept his white underwear from getting entirely soaked through. At least there was that. His undershirt and smalls were only slightly damp, and not exactly comfortable, but there was something to be said for upholding a certain degree of modesty. He stood for a few minutes, soaking up the heat from the fireplace, basking in its burning embers.

“ _Damn._ ”

Phryne, on the other hand, had not fared as well with her silk blouse and crêpe trousers, a realisation he came to as he turned around to see her sitting on the end of the bed, dressed in nothing but her peach-coloured silk camisole and matching tap pants, tending to taking off her apparently ruined stockings and garter belt.

His mouth went as dry as the Sahara desert at the sight. The wet fabric clung to her like a second skin, becoming almost transparent. He could clearly make out the outline of her breasts, the darker aureoles of her nipples, hard peaks against the wet silk. He was certain that, if he were to lean in, he would be able to witness the dark patch of hair between her legs, the visage of which had been imprinted in his mind after seeing that damned painting. To his mortification, his cock began to harden in his smalls and he quickly turned back around. He was entirely unsure as to who’s modesty he was trying to preserve; hers, or his own?

Although he strongly doubted she’d mind if she were to catch him, staring at her, taking in her barely clothed form.

He would even go as far as to say she’d probably enjoy it. But then, so would he, and then he would be in trouble.  

_I’ll wear less next time._

His eyes closed – trying to calm his irregular breathing and willing his erection away – he hadn’t noticed her approach until he smelled a faint trace of her French perfume. He opened his eyes to see her standing next to him – a little too close for propriety’s sake, as always – folding her clothes and hanging them up to dry, next to his on the grate. For some reason, the sight warmed his heart, pulled at his heartstrings, this strangely intimate, domestic picture. He hadn’t realised he’d missed something as simple as this; being together with someone, sharing similar memories, chores, experiences.

His gaze slipped downwards for only a second, but long enough to catch a glimpse of her bare breast through the loose armhole of her camisole, swinging slightly as she bent forward to hang up her blouse.

He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood, desperately trying to think of something, _anything_ , to douse the flame in his underwear.

“Don’t forget to call Hugh about the contents of that bottle. We might need that bit of information before we set a cat amongst the pigeons,” she told him, gazing into the flames, before looking at him, appraisal in her eyes as she boldly took in his body for this first time (although he’d felt her burning gaze upon his back just now). It had been a very long time since Jack had last been under the scrutiny of a similar look, and even then, he was sure it had never been this intense. To his grave mortification and embarrassment, her eyes trailed down towards his groin and there was no possible way that she could have missed the way in which he was straining against his smalls.

Whether conscious or not, she licked her ruby lips and Jack took this as his cue to leave, by this point certain that all of his blood had been rerouted.

“I shall see to it in the morning. I’ll see myself out. Goodnight, Miss Fisher,” he spoke in a strangled, strained voice, walking towards the door with as much dignity as one could muster, sporting an erection with no way to hide it. He’d almost made it to the door, his hand already on the handle, when she verbally interrupted his flight to safety.

“Jack...are you sure you will be alright?” she queried, a slight lilt to her voice, and he knew exactly what she was referring to. He bloody well wasn’t alright; his erection was throbbing, and so was his head from willing it away, and he was about to walk into the corridor dressed in nothing but his underwear. The chances of him running into someone on the short walk to his room were very slim indeed, but still...

“I’m a grown man, Miss Fisher. I can take care of myself.” He wanted to slap himself for the unintended innuendo.

“But Jack, I never even got a chance to thank you for _coming_ here,” she spoke in low tones, and he instantly became wary. She came up behind him, placing an impossibly hot hand on his cold shoulder. He felt as if she were burning him, branding him.

 _Coming_? His mind was in utter turmoil, telling him to leave, that this was more than dangerous, whereas his body’s interest was piqued, wondering where the devil she was _going_ with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably update this some time after the weekend, as I'm going away for a couple of days. Ta!


	2. Until my well runs dry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's still Sunday here, so I'm kind of early on the update, but I hope you all won't hold it against me (or the chapter, for that matter). It's rated Explicit; you guys all know what you came here for.  
> -DVW

_‘A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.’_

— William Shakespeare

 

“There’s no need to thank me, Miss Fisher,” he rumbled, his back tensing upon her touch as she gently tugged at his shoulder, urging him to turn back around to face her. Her gratitude – much like her apologies – merely confused him.

“Of course there is. You’re always selling yourself short, Inspector.”

“Or maybe I’m just used to people taking things for granted,” he scoffed, turning around, hurt visible in his expression. She feared the walls were coming back up.

“I can’t help it that you haven’t been surrounded by the right people, Jack,” she argued as she tentatively reached out – making sure he had time to step away – to stroke his chiselled cheek, “You are quite beautiful, Jack. Surely you must know this?” Her smile was kind, and he knew she was being sincere. Maybe the walls had not been erected, as of yet, after all.

“Not as beautiful as you,” he rasped, damning himself for his honesty, his vulnerability, a pathetic attempt at self-deprecation at the mere touch of her hand. Trying to look at anything other than her bare face, or the way her nipples pushed against the silk of her damp, semi-transparent camisole, as though they were begging him to touch them. He didn’t even dare think about the heat and solace he expected to find between her legs.

“Well, you certainly are beautiful...to me,” she confessed, in a gentler tone than he’d ever heard her use before, and her words went straight to his heart. Was she serious? Was she playing with him, toying with him like she did with all the other men? He barely had time to ponder her meaning when she began nuzzling the skin below his ear, nipping at his throat as her hands trailed across his chest in light, nonsensical patterns.

“And you always smell so _good_ , Jack. How is that?”

“I’m fairly certain ‘L’eau de mer’ can’t be all that appealing of a perfume, Miss Fisher,” he grunted, a more successful stab at his self-confidence and appeal.

“It is on you,” she insisted. _Because it’s you._

He remained silent, before attempting to push her away but finding his arms were not functioning in the least when she began licking the sensitive spot beneath his ear, biting his earlobe.

He shuddered.

“ _Mmm_. And you taste good, too. I often wondered what you’d taste like. I wonder, even now, if you taste this good everywhere.”

“You already know,” he blurted out in a hoarse voice, referring to their stolen kiss, months ago. To know that she’d thought about him excited him far more than it should have.

God, she _had_ to stop doing that.

He quickly realised the error in this train of thought as he noticed, too late, that one of her clever little hands had snaked between them to lightly stroke him through the damp cotton of his smalls.

“Has another woman ever pleasured you with her mouth, Jack?” she panted against his lips, their stuttered breaths intermingling, the thought of taking him into her mouth turning her on beyond measure. He was always so correct, so composed, so noble and she longed to debauch him completely in the most wonderful, satisfying ways possible.

His answer was a bit-off groan at the images her question presented. He’d thought about this, probably more often than was healthy. He’d dreamed about this, more times than was appropriate, but he couldn’t focus, not when her hand was doing wicked things to his cock. How could he even think about forming words with his mouth when she was doing _that_ with her fingers?!

“Never?” _In sixteen years of marriage?_ Her honest surprise was written all over her face, the facade of seductress gone in the blink of an eye. How could no-one have ever attempted to please this man? This beautiful creature, this loving soul. She was willing to bet he had been the one giving pleasure, making sure his partner was sated and sacrificing his own fulfilment for the sake of nobility.

Well. She was having none of that.

“Never,” he ground out against the skin of her neck, suddenly terribly embarrassed and feeling somehow lacking in his inexperience, before he felt her moving away from him, flooded by equal parts gratitude and frustration. He opened his eyes against the continuous onslaught, only to find her kneeling down on the lush carpet, at eye-level with his underwear.

“What are you–” He realised with a start what she was about to attempt, and the thumping of his heart came to a staggering halt.

Unfortunately – or fortunately, he was as of yet undecided – she was two steps ahead of him once again. She pulled on the string holding up his smalls and yanked them down until they pooled around his feet. He felt like an onlooker, having left his body and looking down upon himself.

“Oh, Jack...” she sighed in reverence.

“Phryne, I— oh _fuck_!”

When she put her mouth on him, it felt like a punch to his solar plexus as all of the air seemed to leave his lungs on his next exhale. His head fell back against the door with a thud and a flush spread rapidly across his chest, a sharp contrast to the white of his undershirt. The palms of his hands found purchase, pressing against the door to keep him from falling over. He refused to play an active part in this, yet he couldn’t bring himself to walk away. Not that his jelly-legs were going to do him any good, anyway.

Her red lips were wrapped tightly around his head whilst her one hand fisted him at the base of his cock. Her other hand, he soon discovered, was placed upon his arse, scraping the firm muscles underneath taut skin, no doubt leaving scratches. He found the sensation of pain mixed with pleasure actually made him swell even more. She sucked the tip with a ferocity that unnerved him, as she stroked his shaft with her hand, alternating between tightening her fingers or her mouth, going from zero to madness in a matter of seconds. When his pre-cum began oozing from his slit, she lapped at it like it was a fancy delicacy, before spreading it around the tip of his cock, using it as lubrication to her ministrations. The slick swivel of her devilish tongue along the head of his manhood would soon be the death of him.

He was surprised he could actually hear her – the little noises she made – as the sound of his carefully erected walls, crumbling around him, was deafening to his own ears.

No one had ever done this to him – no – _for_ him, ever before.

The sensation was exquisite.

He’d been celibate _, alone_ , for far too long and the effects of his celibacy hit him like a speeding train. It had been years since he was last graced by the touch of anyone other than his own hand, let alone the mouth of a woman. And not just any woman; the woman he was insanely, hopelessly in love with.

He wouldn’t last.

“Phryne, _please_ ,” he begged of her, not knowing whether he was asking for her to stop or to continue. But judging by the way she took him in all the way, relaxing her throat until his head was bumping the back of her mouth, hitting spongy tissue, she’d obviously assumed the latter.

He grit his teeth, the heat of her mouth enveloping him and quite frankly driving him utterly insane. He had to fight the urge to thrust into her welcoming warmth, to get her onto the bed to bury himself between her thighs. The impulse overwhelmed him.

He noticed a few stray tears were falling from her eyes, staining her otherwise flawless cheeks, as she took him in as far as she possibly could, the pressure of him at the back of her throat almost uncomfortable to the point of unbearable. She pulled off for a fleeting moment, taking a gulping breath, before taking him in her sinful mouth once more, her swollen lips sucking at his head, teasing the most sensitive part of his cock.

Jack wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take. His mouth was hanging open, taking in deep gulps of air, his chest heaving as his heart hammered against his ribcage.

 _It was too much._ Phryne Fisher was on her knees, for all intents and purposes _sucking him off_ , and just the crude expression and the thought alone made him harder than he’d ever thought possible.

He hardly dared to look further down, but when he did the sight that met his eyes nearly stopped his heart. Her red lips had stained his cock, as she bobbed her mouth up and down, breathing heavily through her nose, one hand splayed on his hip, applying a tight suction on his shaft with the flat of her tongue on the way up. Her other hand was nowhere to be seen, but upon closer inspection he realised she’d slipped it into her own knickers.

He let out an involuntary groan that echoed in the otherwise silent room. She was receiving pleasure from this, touching herself whilst—

She hummed her approval around his cock, and he nearly went cross-eyed with blinding pleasure.

“ _Jesus..._ ” he breathed.

She looked up then, and Jack wasn’t sure how many more heart attacks he could take before his heart would simply give out on him. Eyes large and so dark, peeking up from underneath her raven-coloured fringe, he could barely distinguish the gray-blue depths of her irises, her plump lips wrapped around his manhood, one hand cupping his balls as she vigorously rubbed herself with the other.

If at all possible, he hardened even further, right there in her hot, talented mouth, and she started lavishing his glans with awfully wonderful licks and sucks meant to drive him to the brink of insanity. His hands somehow found their way onto her head, his fingers threading through her hair, neither pushing nor pulling, but he desperately needed something to anchor him.

He could feel his balls tightening as the muscles in his legs were straining to keep him upright, his upper body held up only by the door in his back and sheer willpower. It was all too intimate, and yet it felt impersonal – _wrong_ – somehow, not being able to return the pleasure, and he couldn’t seem to make sense of it all, he couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe –

 _It was too much,_ and he couldn’t bear it any longer.

His body was strong, but his mind was stronger.

“ _Please._ I can’t...” he panted, his strong hands in her hair pulling her away from his manhood – rougher than he’d intended – letting his hardness slip from her lips with a wet sound that went straight to his groin. It was all he could do not to push her back down onto her knees, to finish what she’d started.

She looked at him – standing on shaky feet – meeting his eyes, dilated pupils encountering terribly confused ones. He wasn’t even sure which ones were his anymore. Her face was flushed with arousal, her lips were wet and he didn’t even want to ponder on how much he liked seeing her so dishevelled, his own pre-cum mixed with her saliva staining her swollen lips.

He could smell _her_ _arousal_ in the air, heady and musky, could almost taste the traces of her secretions on the fingers she’d used to touch herself with. It was a volatile cocktail, an overload to his senses, and he needed to leave before he would no longer be able to control his baser urges.

He could smell _himself_ on her breath, the pure essence of his being, and he longed to savour his own taste on her tongue. To suck her tongue into his mouth, enveloping her pliant muscle in his hot cavern until he’d cleaned her of all of his remnants. It felt wrong, sinful, _depraved_ , but he wanted it with an intensity he barely recognised as belonging to him. His arms were shaking at his sides, as he restrained himself from reaching out to touch her. He knew it would be his downfall, to feel the expensive albeit damp silk, to stroke her pure, smooth skin underneath his fingertips.

He’d already let his control slip in a manner completely uncharacteristic of him. He coveted his control, his ability to not let his emotions and needs – both emotional and physical – get the better of him. And even though he’d loved it when she...when she’d done _that_ to him, he could not allow for anymore slipups. His position within their relationship was precariously close to becoming entirely unhinged, and it frightened him beyond belief.

“Didn’t...didn’t you like it, Jack? I mean, it’s perfectly fine if you don’t, not all men do, you know. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed, I mean, I thought—”

She was rambling, staring intently at the floor as she wiped her fingers on her undergarments, and he came to the startling realisation that she was nervous, perhaps even a little embarrassed. There was concern written all over her lovely features, a fear that by rejecting this, he was rejecting her. He was scared to imagine what it might mean, that this affected her so deeply, the worry that she’d done something wrong.

Was she... _hurt_?

He knew he meant something to her. But did he mean more to her than just a colleague, a friend?

He viciously slammed a lid on that train of thought, knowing it would only lead to hurt and heartache, though he couldn’t help the small spark of hope that escaped the iron prison, fluttering around his already traumatized heart, teasing him, tormenting him.

He shushed her by pressing his index finger to her moist lips – trying not to wonder too much about where the remainder of her red lipstick might have gone but suspecting he’d find traces of it sooner rather than later, somewhere on his person – applying slight pressure before removing it, the temptation still too great, his arousal still muddling his thoughts, his sanity.

His cock throbbed and he closed his eyes before calmly counting to ten.

He gently stepped closer to her, closing the distance between them before softly pressing his forehead to hers. He remained like that, allowing for his breathing to settle to a somewhat more natural pace, trying to ignore the awkwardness of his cock pressed between their lower abdomens, still slightly moist from her _attentions,_ leaving a wet trail on her damp silk camisole. She didn’t seem to care one way or another, focused solely on rubbing her nose tenderly against his as he put his arms around her waist in a loving embrace. This, _this_ was far more intimate to him than when she’d put her mouth on him. This was what he craved, _needed_ from her, always.

“Believe me, Phryne, I _loved_ it. Probably far more than I should have, and more than words can express. Please, don’t be sorry,” he rasped, one side of his mouth curling upwards ever so slightly when he noticed the appearance of a cheeky smile lurking somewhere around her nude mouth.

“But...you don’t want me to ever do it again?” she spoke in a small voice, which somehow seemed so at odds with the way she’d just behaved. She was so sure of her ways when it came to matters of physical pleasure, but she was just as uncertain as he was when it came to expressing her feelings, and this gave him the strength, the courage, to continue.

“No, yes! I mean, I...not _never_ ,” he whispered, tripping over his words and hating the way his voice almost failed him, like a leaf trembling in the wind.

“Just...not _now_?” she supplied kindly, gently, pulling back from him, her face so open, hopeful and vulnerable to him in that moment that his throat constricted with emotion, promises threatening to spill forth from his dry lips, unspoken feelings bursting from his invisible seams.

“Not now,” he repeated, relief flooding his system at her understanding, _their_ understanding of sorts, the immensity of his pronounced implication somehow feeling like a weight that had been lifted off his shoulders. Things had been said, without having been spoken.

She reverently took his head in her smaller hands, cupping his jaw, stroking his strong jaw line with her thumbs and he could feel her small puffs of breath on his face. She leaned in and he inhaled sharply, before realising her destination. She placed a tender, innocent kiss on his forehead and he closed his eyes, knowing he would cherish this moment forever.

Her hands, meanwhile, were already busy at his waist as she bent down to retrieve his smalls, pulling them back up and carefully tucking him back inside. He allowed her. A soft hiss escaped him as her nimble fingers made contact with his engorged, sensitive flesh, but she did not waver until she had secured his modesty, tying the string of his smalls.

“I understand, darling man. It’s alright,” she murmured in his ear, and, upon noticing his insecure frown, the tenseness in his sharp jaw, she added “it’s _alright_ , Jack.”. She stroked his frown until it evened out, his eyes fluttering closed at her soft touch, his body relaxing, yielding to her.

He nodded mutely.

“Now, go on then. Off to bed with you!” she announced cheerily, playfully pushing his shoulder, moving him towards her bedroom door.

“Always so forceful, woman.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way, Inspector.”

It was true.

“Oh, and Jack?”

He turned towards her, door handle in hand.

“What about, uhm?” she queried, biting her lip to stop herself from laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation, her eyes filled with glee, waving a hand in the general direction of his crotch.

“I will see to the matter at...hand, accordingly, Miss Fisher,” he finished lamely, cringing at the inappropriate choice of words, smiling apologetically.

She chuckled at his discomfort, her eyes darkening dangerously at the thought of him, taking himself in hand. He really ought to leave now.

“See that you do, Inspector. It wouldn’t do for you to show up at breakfast in this state. Just imagine the absolute horror on Aunt P’s face!”

“That might just be the solution to the problem, Miss Fisher,” he quipped dryly.

They laughed.

For a brief moment, they simply stood, regarding one another, naked and vulnerable where it mattered most, like the lovesick fools they were, whether they realised it or not.

“Goodnight, Jack,” she spoke at long last, coming up next to him and reaching around him to open the bedroom door for him.

“Sweet dreams, Miss Fisher,” he nodded, before turning on his heel and heading for the sanctity of his own bedroom, hearing her turn the lock in place.

* * *

He lay awake all night, dreaming up wonderful ways in which he could show her his unwavering gratitude.

Not now, but not never.


End file.
